


Not So Painless Anymore

by forever1895



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Ficlet, Gen, Pre-A Study in Pink, Sad Anderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever1895/pseuds/forever1895
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set the night before A Study In Pink, Anderson is unable to convince himself that Sherlock is anyone else but someone to be admired, and someone who makes Anderson's entire existence unnecessary. Existential angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not So Painless Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> In response to a prompt from darkmus.tumblr.com:  
> 'I want a fic that takes place the night before Study in Pink where Anderson is crying over how Sherlock is mean to him and Sally comes over to his flat to comfort him. He’s weeping at the edge of his bed and Sally is kneeling on the floor, looking up at him trying to calm him down and then Anderson falls to the floor and they cry together. She ends up staying the night to make sure he sleeps okay.'
> 
> This is my first ever piece of writing so sorry if the quality of my writing isn't quite there yet. Comments and feedback would be much appreciated!

He was one of those people. When you ask 10-year-old boys what they want to grow up to be, 1 out of 3 will say a policeman. But Phillip Anderson knew that he wanted to be a detective, and he never changed his mind. 

He loved his work, and he had to: giving up most of your social life (or what social life he had) is no mean feat. But he loved his work, so it was painless. Rather, it used to be.

Until six months ago, when Sherlock Holmes swept into their lives and proceeded to destroy every ounce of confidence Phillip had managed to acquire, shattering the illusion that he was any good at his job, his job which he loved more than anything in his life. On that day Greg had come trotting in after him with the sort of look on his face a child has when trying to comprehend that the Earth spins on its axis. Sherlock then took it upon himself to ‘deduce’. Twelve seconds on Phillip and he had already sussed out his loveless upbringing and undying desire to impress those who would never be proud of him, namely his parents. This was miles beyond everything Anderson had studied so meticulously, a skill that couldn’t be taught, therefore something he could never achieve: from now on, he would always be second best. 

Phillip and Sally were at a loss. Suddenly cases that they wouldn’t have approached with a ten-foot pole were being solved by one man. Anderson followed Donovan’s lead: to treat the man with disdain and distrust, so as to make him someone they would neither admire nor compare themselves to.

Sally seemed to find this method very effective, but ultimately Phillip’s heart wasn’t in it. He couldn’t suppress his awe for Sherlock, even less so the implicit feelings of his own inferiority that came with.

What was the point of existing in the world of crime solving when Sherlock Holmes existed? This was the question that he was asking himself repeatedly tonight. He knew there was nothing to be gained from this exercise, that it was futile, that it was a hundred million other things that Sally would say but she wasn’t here, and now he couldn’t get rid of the thoughts of worthlessness that had infiltrated once again, and then something wet was starting to drip-drip onto his clenched fists. His knuckles became white as he remembered everything he’d had to give up to make it this far, juxtaposed with the casual way Sherlock could step in and know just where to look and what to ask to be able to find that missing link. The thoughts spun themselves in this endless cycle, winding a web of hatred to wrap him with until all he could do was sit there on the edge of his bed, hunched over himself as the tears continued to stream silently down his face while inside his conscience screamed criticisms not unlike those he received from Sherlock.

He must have stayed like that for an hour at least before Sally let herself in. Even though Anderson's wife was currently away on business she was not accustomed to doing this, especially seeing as she’d had a date that evening, but Phillip had sounded a little strange on the phone earlier when he’d asked if she was free. The whole evening she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that she ought to be with him. She would have knocked, but she realised on arrival that the door was unlocked. Just as well, because he wouldn’t have heard her.

She walked down the hallway. He had dumped his workbag in front of his room, and there inside she found him, still fully dressed. He finally looked up, mortified to be found in this state. She rushed to him, dropping to her knees and taking his hands in hers. There was dried blood on his fingernails where they had pierced the skin of his palms. She looked up into his eyes, angry tears forming at the corners of her own because there was only one thing that this could be about.

His voice was coarse, barely to be heard as he whispered, “You said you were busy.”

“I wish I had come sooner, I-”

“Sally, I can’t carry on like this,” he snapped, getting up to break the heart-wrenching eye contact and shifting out of his catatonic state. “I know that I’m not a particularly likeable person. I’m used to being lonely, to being unloved. I’ve spent my whole life isolated but I’ve always been focused, focused on my aims, and when I was moved to Greg’s department I honestly thought that I’d made it big, that it couldn’t get any better. I was solving cases, impressing people, I felt _good_ about myself. I was the happiest I’ve ever been.” Here he trailed off for just a moment, deep in thought. “I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. My already insignificant part in all this has been rendered obsolete. I can’t get it out of my head Sally: _there is no reason for me to exist, there is no point-_ ”  

“Now you stop it!” She stood up to face him, frustratedly wiping away her tears. “You know what I think of Mister Sherlock Holmes, and no it is not a fucking coping mechanism, I honestly think there is something not right about that man. Some may think he has a ‘talent’, but that doesn’t diminish the skills you have. You solve plenty of cases, much more than me. Don’t _ever_ forget that you are invaluable to our department. And to me. Sherlock decides when he wants to sweep in and lend us a hand, but that’s not how the real world works. And even Sherlock gets things wrong. No one’s perfect, Phillip, but you... you’re damn close.” With that she hugged him, and the rigidness in Anderson melted away. He felt so drained, so tired. He didn’t feel happy or resolved, but at the very least a bit better.

Sally had always been a comforting presence to him, but this was the first time he'd opened up about his true feelings, which he was usually too embarrassed to voice. As much as he did (and would continue to) reciprocate Sherlock's animosity towards him, he couldn't pretend forever that the words never filtered through. It was also the first time Sally had revealed that she might want their relationship to be anything more than platonic. He took off his suit jacket and they fell onto his bed, and there sleep found them while still they held hands.


End file.
